Cascade / Puget Sound Bike Tour, September 1 - 4, Days 1 - 4
Gig Harbor, WA to Lodgepole Campground, Mt. Rainier National Park
Mileage: 178.9
Mileage to date: 178.9
Preface
It was cool inside the
house. I crouched over the couch, furiously typing on my laptop, finalizing a
number of things from my life in the real world before I left. It was already
11 a.m., and my family was waiting outside to send me off. "I have all day
to get there," I comforted them as I quickly waddled into the cherished
warmth of a dwindling summer. I was headed for Olympia, where I visited often. I
knew the way. I was about to explore Washington Cascade Mountain Range for two weeks by bike “in search of wisdom and clarity,” as I told various people. I wanted to travel to places that I either disliked or neglected to visit in hopes of attaining some newfound appreciation. I knew that I would meet people who I wouldn’t even consider nodding my head to when passing by in the motions of daily life. And in doing so, I radically underestimated how kind strangers could be and what could be achieved by paying it forward.
Part 1: The Elusive Giant
As I pedaled away, it felt like flight! I leaned and swerved the bike to weave in and out of spots of dancing shade and sun and stuck my hand to the sky to feel the dead wind that worked neither for or against me. My journey carried me away from sheltered Gig Harbor, across the Tacoma Narrows, down and up along the steep kicker hills that navigated the Puget Sound, through the back roads between a partitioned military base, and to downtown Olympia. All the while, I stole glances at Mt. Rainier in the cloudless sky, always establishing a commanding presence though trees on either side of the road would often obstruct it. The dome of the Washington State Capitol caught my eye, and I watched the sun move millimeters across the sky and highlight the magnificent architecture’s reflection on mildly murky waters. I rolled over in the grass in hopes of warming my front side, and spat out the apple core that I fumbled with in my mouth. I winced at the sudden lashes of cold air that lapped over my exposed skin, eagerly awaiting the small window of calmness to allow the sun to cradle me.
~
I jolted awake at another
lashing. It had been over an hour and food was on my mind. I received a text message
from Daimon, whom I would be spending the night with.1 I mindlessly pedaled a few miles up the hill and peeked into the front window. Daimon
and his family sat at a dining table and waved me on in even though they didn’t
know half of who I was. Introductions were short but meaningful, and before I knew
it, there was beer, baked beans and a good-looking burger on a plate in front
of me. I didn't bother to tell them that I was vegetarian. It was food, and I was going to eat whatever I could take. Between chatting about beer, sailing, homebuilding, and swapping
stories, I bit into the meat, at first thinking about gagging. It was hard to
swallow, but my body seemed to welcome it. I gulped the beer and shoveled in
beans just to hide the taste of guilt.
The evening sun revealed a
healthy glow to each one of our faces as we sat in a circle on Daimon’s deck.
His family remarked how bike touring was “badass,” and joked about how they got
tired riding down to the grocery story down the street. And for once I felt
that what I was doing was broader than the habits and addictions of everyday
life. I set up my tent as the sun oozed an orange scheme over blackberry
bushes, the tops of RVs, and the Cascades in the distance. Here I come, I thought as I tucked into my sleeping bag and
descended into slumber with the dying light.
~
The grass offered a
plentiful helping of dew to my already cold feet. Daimon was waiting inside
with coffee and a berry shake. “I just realized that blueberries and
blackberries are the only ones that are named after colors!” he remarked.
“Haha.” I genuinely found it funny. “Yep, you don’t see too many yellowberries
out there!” We chatted a little bit more, and he ended up lending me tent
stakes to support my rain fly.
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“Oh… Yeah. Just trynna wait
out the rain. Thanks.”
“Okay, just makin’ sure.”
Oddly enough, I psyched
myself up by humming a harmonious Celtic tune, and set out into the rain that
turned into a storm. I endured two and a half hours of steady climbing into Mt.
Rainier National Park to a campsite, where my spirits were deflated by
continuous rain while I pitched my tent in my wet clothes. My neighbor
approached me and apologized, “You made it! You looked like you were having a
hard time, and I woulda given you a ride, but I didn’t have anywhere to put
ya.” He was right. He had a wide kayak and a stack of gear in his truck bed. He
was wearing an electric blue tech pullover with hiking pants. I thanked him,
then tried to lift my mood by starting a conversation that seemed to find a
dead end wherever it went.
My skin was red from the
cold and irritation as I stripped off my wet gear and wrung it out. I bundled
into all the dry clothing that was available as I realized that it was
unbearably cold and not even the middle of the night. It stung when I moved
because my feet were mostly numb. I shivered my way into my sleeping bag,
almost forgetting that I hadn’t eaten anything substantial recently. I wasn’t
even hungry and my body was shutting down. So I ate. I ate because I didn’t
want to think about the cold or about the weather or what the hell I was going
to do without any dry and warm clothing to bike in. I feasted on a quarter loaf
of sourdough and a small serving of cold curried lentils in a microwavable
pouch. I was still hungry, but that didn’t stop me from falling asleep with
breadcrumbs and spicy sauce all over my cheeks.
The rain lessened to a
drizzle, but continued into the next day. My feet were in the same condition.
In the name of adventure and in the name of craziness I pulled on my soaked and
freezing clothes and hurriedly dismantled everything and sprinted in intervals
on the bike in order to heat up. My route for the day was pure climbing and
descending. The road wasn’t steep, but the constant uphill degraded my morale.
Any flat section didn’t last. A heavy fog settled in and hid the giant that I
had come to see and pay homage to. I reached the top of the first climb, where
many tourists were equally disappointed at the lack of mountain. I waited my
turn in a long line to the bathroom, where I knelt on the ground running my
clothes under an air dryer. I must have been there for at least half an hour,
withstanding the “What are you doing?” looks from anyone who entered the
bathroom. Hoping that Rainier would magically emerge through the fog, I went
back outside, and to my reluctance, rolled away from the closest that I would
be to it.
I began a frigid hour
descent over rivers and up canyons, thinking about what hypothermic hell I
would be in if I was even mildly wet. An old growth forest grove with towering
cedars and pines and firs sheltered me from any traffic noises and put me at
rest on a log bench. Soon after, I began the most formidable and taxing climb
that I have ever encountered in all my years of bike-riding. Cayuse Pass was
mostly straight, though at times it gradually bent around corners and reminded
me of the setting sun and the time that I didn’t have. I tried to ignore the
numbers on my bike computer, which mocked me with a perpetual speed of four to
five miles per hour no matter how hard I pedaled with my legs that had been
reduced to a gelatinous state. All I could think of at the moment was any
capable runner passing me by.
An older but physically fit
woman wearing an electric blue fleece approached me in the lot and asked if I’d
like to join her in a circle with her four friends at the rear of a small
pickup truck. I obliged, intrigued by the offer. I lifted myself onto the
tailgate next to a woman not too far from my age in front of a number of
coolers and plastic bags. She urged me to eat, as I cracked open a can of
Rainier and modestly bit into a few cookies. The beer came down in large gulps
and tasted of heaven. It wasn’t a loaf of bread or cold food that was meant to
be warm or junk food and my senses buzzed with delight! I soon learned that
they were Trail Angels, people who provided unbiased support to hikers.
The younger woman on my right was nearly finished with the Pacific Crest Trail,
a backcountry trail from Mexico to Canada. I applauded her, as I was
simultaneously giddy from meeting such an adventurer, swinging my legs back and
forth, but also alienated by the ladies’ hiker talk. The Angels invited me to a
tent spot at their campground a number of miles down the road. I was torn
between the moonrise and sunset over Rainier that I would miss and the warmth
of spaghetti that my stomach begged for. Not for the food, but for the
uplifting company, I followed them down.
It was a half-hour steep
descent from Chinook. I tucked into the bike for aerodynamics and pedaled hard,
feeding from the buzz of the Rainier and the cookies as I laughed maniacally
out of pain and out of happiness and out of hunger, ringing the bell on my bike
at every tree and dimple in the road and at the sky and at whoever I was
thinking of in the distance at that moment. I gorged myself on the salad and
the conversation and the huckleberry bars and garlic bread with spaghetti to a
comatose state. I didn’t mind loosening up with another beer. It helped to
giggle at every other sentence, funny or not. We talked of Tacoma and of
raccoons and marmots, PCTers, and of women, “All About That Bass,” and of trail
names.3 Trail names were something familiar to me from my Boy Scout days, but long
forgotten. To have one seemed like an exclusive club that I longed to be a part
of. There were Glimmers, Happy Tutus, Wrong Ways, Boomboxes, Little Rivers, and
Half Miles, and there was Me.
I wrote before
earning a restless sleep, but soon woke up with urgency in the middle of the
night. My body was finally rebelling against my terrible diet. I wiggled out of
my tight sleeping bag, fumbling around in the blackness for a flashlight,
sanitation shovel, or anything to grab really. There wasn’t anything or any
time. I crashed through the screen door of the tent and forgot the shoes and
muttered profanities as I stepped into a thorny shrub and then face planted
into prickly and gravelly soil because of the large stone that caught my foot.
I whimpered and got up and pulled down my pants and felt a different thorny
bush or the same thorny bush prodding my rear end. My journal entry that night:
"Sept. 4 - Probably 0100
Imagine waking up and having so badly to take an
immense shit that if you move a muscle, you will
soil yourself… I moved a muscle… Blue plaid boxers are dirty and so is my
one pair of shorts that isn’t meant for biking. Got a little on my sleeve.”4
The same woman with the
electric blue fleece said she could smell animal in the morning. I knew she was
referring to the poorly buried waste near my tent. Shame clouded my mind, as I assumed that it would eventually be discovered. I ate breakfast with Glimmer
and the Angels, thanked them, and started towards the land of wind and heat.
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1 Daimon and I are part of a free-to-join organization called Warm Showers, a networking site that allows bicycle tourists a place to stay along their journey.
2 This is what is referred to as "bonking."
3 A trail name is an alias that one adopts to leave their worldly life behind them. The name can reflect actions, stories, or personality. It is often given to someone by other travellers, but can be given to oneself.
4 While I'll accept your possible laughter, ridicule, pity, or whatever you may be thinking, I'll let you know that bicycle touring demanded about 2000-5000 calories per day. To stay healthy, I had to break even, then consume more for reserves. Doing this on a cheese cracker-doughnut diet was destructive to my health and made certain things difficult as you may imagine.
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